Put this on the second page:
When the mists in my beloved valley steam all around me; when the sun rests on the surface of the impenetrable forest at noon and only single rays steal into the inner sanctum; when I lie on the tall grass beside a rushing brook and become aware of the remarkable diversity of a thousand little growing things on the ground, with their peculiarities; when I can feel the teeming of a minute world amid the blades of grass and the innumerable, unfathomable shapes of worm and insect inside my heart and can sense the presence of the Almighty, who in a state of continuous bliss bears and sustains us – then, my friend, when it grows light before my eyes and the world around me and the sky above come to rest wholly within my soul like a beloved, I am filled often with yearning and think, if only I could express it all on paper, everything that is housed so richly and warmly within me, so that it might be the mirror of my soul as my soul is the mirror of Infinite God… ah, my dear friend… but I am ruined by it. I succumb to its magnificence.
Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther. It sounds like something I could have written here at the cabin.
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